


bungee cord

by feltstrips



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, Implied Somnophilia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oviposition, Pseudo-Incest, Recreational Drug Use, Tentacles, Xenophilia, egg day 2k19 baby, pw/p
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-23 18:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18555223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feltstrips/pseuds/feltstrips
Summary: A flick of the lighter and Klaus’ face goes burnished in the glow; scrunched-up gilt, trying his damnedest not to cough. Ain’t that a trick.





	bungee cord

**Author's Note:**

> i threatened to knock out egg day AND 4/20 in one fell, slime covered swoop and i always make good on my threats. here it is quick and disgusting (and late)

Ben doesn't miss the way Klaus’ knees keep bending-unbending, working his heels into the sheets, creasing them up; or the pulse jumping in his neck, barely visible, and the slightest little pooch of his stomach. Right under his happy trail. If he squints that rounded puff seems to be wiggling, just a bit, which makes him want to be sick so he doesn't squint at it. 

“Can't you just...go to the bathroom?” Ben asks, then winces at the look Klaus gives him as he stretches out, cracks his back; solid crick-crack noises that go right to his head. He flops back into his lumpy throne of pillows.

“Ugh, you've made it grosser,” he says, shudders all fluttery, sinks deeper into the pillows. One of his legs jerks fullsale and then keeps bouncing. Restless syndrome, etc, etc etc. 

“And doing it here makes it less nasty?”

He rolls his eyes, bowling balls down the lane. His hands are unsteady but he reaches inbetween his splayed legs and slips the tips of his pointer and index into his ass. Ben fake-gags, exaggerating; Klaus raises his head just enough to glare and pulls his fingers back out, scooping sort of motion, and they're coated in the same vicious glitter-glue-thick slime that's been puddling on his bedspread for the better part of ten minutes. 

“Your mess, dude,” he says, and Ben’s sure he's bright red, “Started in your bed, it's staying in your bed.” 

Ben averts his eyes, embarrassed and going for some sort of decent, and focuses on the tapestry hanging above the headboard. Klaus scribbled oneliner poetry all around it and part runs onto the corner; lifts up when the fabric catches a draft, tearing a janky capital “A” in two, stranding her sister letters. Abbreviation. Klaus looks like he wants to say something else but his brows knit and he sticks his tongue out a little, blows a loose-lipped raspberry. His version of a grunt. He thumps back and wipes his fingers off on Ben’s star-pattern comforter like he doesn't know what to do with himself. 

“Shit,” he hisses, “I'm gonna kill you,” and Ben laughs, he can't really help it.

Klaus says “Uh-huh,” and the leg of his skintight mission uniform is still plastered on up to one of his calves; dangling, gutless pelt wrapped up in the sheets, “soon as I can walk without-”

“Ew, don't,” Ben says, but try and stand in front of a freight train and see what happens; he raises his volume, “without shitting horror jizz down my thighs. That's what I’ll do— I’ll kill you.” 

“It's not jizz,” he says, weak protest. Threat bypass. Klaus throws his hands in the air. “Then what do you suggest it is, Ben? Fucking Jell-O?”

All he can give is a shrug. 

“Ugh. Ugh! I feel like I've been creampied about fifty times over,” Klaus says, miserably, tentatively going to prod at his asshole again but thinking better of it. “Bet you’re getting off on this, huh?”

Ben can practically feel his hair stand on end. “ _No_ — Klaus, you know it was Them, I wouldn't—” and he could swear it up and down but hindsight is 20/20, the few snapshots he remembers; Klaus tangled up with his suit unzipped to the crotch, dead asleep; curling up next to him, how touch-too-warm he felt, the lingering press of Ben’s back to his; the purring rip of the Horror pulling out of his skin, the blood, the stinging. Klaus’ body rocking against him. Klaus’ sweat in his mouth, filming over his forehead, his palms. The droll seasick whine, the blinders They put on him when They come out. That's what he gets.

“Yeah, well,” Klaus says, drags his thumb over the bulge, riffling up the fuzz of his happy trail, “Uriel says you're full of shit. She says she watched you enjoy it, you skeevy little monster.” 

He's putting on and Ben knows it— Klaus hasn’t been sober enough to watch Casper on DVD with his eyes uncrossed, no chance of real paranormal activity— but he's almost convinced enough to be guilty until he remembers who he's talking to. “Uriel who?”

He hesitates. “...Septim. Uriel Septim. Old resident ghost?”

“That's a freakin’ Oblivion character, you big fat liar,” Ben says, cracking a smile. 

“Uh, yeah,” Klaus says, breaking it up with those _heh-heh-hah_ heroin chic breathless laughs he keeps under his tongue, “yeah, I'm fat and it's ‘cuzza you,” and he slaps his puffed up stomach. Light thwack for emphasis, nothing more, but his eyes widen and he chokes; a glob of pearly round things spurts out of him at the pressure, goo flecking onto his thighs. He jerks away, wide-eyed, lets out a delayed little shriek.

“What the crap?” Ben asks, voice cracking, and boggles at the things. They're blue, big for marbles but small for ping-pong balls, with pinpoint black dots in the center. Look like fish eggs-- _are_ they eggs? Something whirrs up copper-gear quick and the wondering starts, headed by h-sounding words— howsit, howzat, how, more importantly why— and he tries to cast a line to the Horrors and get some answers but that’s like a 3rd grader interrogating the playground bully; all he gets is a nip at the hook, a warning gnashing of teeth.

Klaus shudders again, whimpers like a dog with kennel sores. He's so red it looks like he'd been dunked into boiling water, scalded face-to-chest; it takes a minute of tense, juddering silence for his breathing to go slow.

He says “if you're gonna just sit there and watch at least make yourself useful,” and waves limpwristed at the sideboard. At the clump of clutter, Klaus-themed shrapnel. 

“Um,” Ben says, and Klaus tries to sit up but thinks better of it. The sheets tug under him and the eggs, huddled, move with all the enthusiasm of an overfilled ice cream cone tipping over. Slow, gelatinous shifting. He is not staring. The Horrors aren’t revving up to whisper. Swear it. 

Klaus snaps his fingers around Ben's nose, breaks him out of the zone. “Just roll me a joint, man,” he says. 

Underneath a gauzy paisley shawl, or scarf, there's an effeminate makeup bag spotted with brownish burns. Ben puts his back to the bed and unzips it and it's full of junk; cardboard slides with artist studio addresses, a tie-dye rubber skull (the top comes off, he knows that's where Klaus keeps his ecstasy), empty blister packs. Gum wrappers. A loose condom or two, then his dugout, mercifully. If he'd found a baggie of weed and some rolling papers Ben thinks he might have cried— he can’t roll for shit, and tonight something tells him Klaus wouldn’t get a kick out of fumbling around with spit-wet paper and air pockets. 

“This good?” he asks, a little upset by how easy it is to offer him drugs, and holds the smooth-cornered wood box up to the light. Klaus tilts his chin and squints, looks relieved after a second (Ben’s rolling skills are notorious, common knowledge) and nods. He pops the lid and the small stick-pipe jumps up at him, spring-loaded. There’s just a trickle, maybe half a gram left; digging into it, filling the serving-sized bowl, he's reminded of Fundip. Hysterical.

Turning, handing him the whole ordeal, Ben almost says _one dipstick coming up_ , (something he must have picked up from a novel, late-night television) but the way Klaus is set- clenched jaw, closed pinkish eyes— stops him short. 

“Fucken’ hurts, Ben,” he says, a little whiny. His heart clenches.

“Careful with that thing,” Ben says, watching him dangle the one-hitter coals 'n all above his bare chest. Klaus grunts and blows the smoke in his face; coughs on the exhale— something Ben hasn't seen in years— his chest spasms and reflexively, miserably, he draws his legs up close like a dying wasp on a windowsill. Whimpers again, still sputtering a little, his throat working. A fist-sized blurb of eggs and slime rolls out of him.

“Fuck me,” he says, shakily plants his feet back on the bed, knees looking so sharp at this angle, “no, no, not literally,” and he gestures at Ben, at how he's fixated on the wet mess between his legs, “wipe that look off your face, mister.” 

Defensive, “What look?” but he's still staring and can't stop; they almost look like tiny eyes, those blue-circled black dots staring back up at him. All blurred together, like that time he found a clutch of frogspawn clinging to the bank of a creek, midmisson distraction. How it bobbed in the still water, slick to the touch. Amphibious; maybe he should get Klaus in the bath. Would that help or would it make things worse? Ben feels like he should know but the Horrors aren't giving him much; microwaving themselves in the pit of his stomach, roiling in his flustered body heat, a continuous, gratingly pleased hum like a damp hive of bees. 

“Whatever,” Klaus says, and holds the one-hitter out to him, almost drops it on the carpet with how loose his grip is, “please?”

Ben takes it obediently and grinds it in the dugout, scoops him another dose, passes it over, gets it lit for him. A flick of the lighter and Klaus’ face goes burnished in the glow, scrunched-up gilt, trying his damnedest not to cough. Bizarrely, he thinks he sees a slip of smoke come out his nose. Like he’s got some pipes crossed. Ain’t that a trick.

A little trickle of cold fuzz draws along on the inside of his skull; The Horrors getting their two cents in, _rumble growl rumble, whisperers know best_ , and just like that Ben has an idea. A way to help, because Klaus really isn't doing so hot, is he? He stands up a little too fast and his hand is out unbidden, dazed hover of a drunk or a drive-by shooter. Klaus flinches back, skittish. The marrow of Ben’s bones coils up.

“What’s up?” mumbled around the pipe, the mouthpiece caught between his front teeth. Ben hovers for another second, head cocked. Face all sympathetic. Klaus reads him like a book. 

“Wait,” he says, half laughing until he crouches next to the bed, real close, “wait, wait, hold on— what are you—” Ben shushes him, feeling as nervous as he looks. Gets a hold on Klaus’ shoulder; easing him down, not shoving, he promises. The one-hitter rolls off the bed and clatters against the wall, brassy sound, lost in the cracks. 

“Let me, Klaus, it might help,” Ben says, trying to talk all gentle and calming like Mom does when she's got to pull birdshot out of his shoulder or road rash from his shins, that steady sort of lilt but even to him, it sounds frantic. “Lie down, it's okay.”

“It's _not_ okay,” Klaus says, catching on, grabbing at his wrist. He shakes him off. “What are you doing—”

“Shh,” he says, “Shh, just hold still, it's okay, I got you,” and then Ben really does got him because tiny tendrils push up the veins in his wrist, tear out and wrap up Klaus’ fingers, stop the clawing; blood runs to his sleeve, soaking in, some falling and freckling Klaus’ cheekbones red. He winces and Ben thinks he might be hyperventilating. He can see every scrap of the whites of his eyes.

“Ben, no, c’mon,” Klaus says, sniffing like he's gonna cry, which Ben can't really blame him for. 

He says “It's okay,” one more time and lays his palm on that faintly shifting bulge in his abdomen, take a deep breath (in-out one two) and presses, kneading; feels like flattening a stress ball. Klaus gags out this high-pitched burble and a huge gush of eggs roll out, soaking Ben’s bed to the mattress.

“Awhgod,” he gasps, jaw dropping, wildly unfocused, “holy shit, holy shit.”

Ben lets up and Klaus curls up around his hand, the absence of it, his skin rolling in ripples. He's panting fast and his breath smells like soured weed and bile. Another press; over and across this time, slow slide like squeezing a tube of toothpaste against the counter and Klaus’ back arches into it; he moans, clamps his legs together, thighs smearing in the puddle of goo. For the first time (liar, liar) Ben notices his dick, just an afterthought. Klaus has been soft during the whole ordeal but— and this is sure something new— there's a bead of precum shivering at the head.

“Oh,” he says, accidentally echoing Klaus' open-mouthed groan, “that’s— Klaus?”

Ben wants to reach out and touch his dick but that would be crossing a line in the sand, maybe, so he just puts more weight on it, harder, feeling Klaus cramp underneath the pressure. Another smattering of eggs. Another hysterical noise, then the biggest surprise of the night; Klaus’ soft cock jerks and jizzes all over his stomach, his hand, splattering up to his ribcage. 

“Christ and a half,” Ben says, mouth comically dry, cotton fumbling. Cum smudges inbetween his palm and Klaus' skin. Boiling hot. Klaus doesn't answer; lies there, twitching intermittently, face buried in the crook of his elbow.

**Author's Note:**

> then the proud parents panic and scoop the eggs into a halfgallon mason jar and leave it at a bus stop


End file.
